‘That’s him,’ sighed Liam. ‘He … uh … he does like a drink every now and then.’
‘Gets him into all kinds of trouble,’ added Maddy.
‘We’re going to give him a right telling off, so we are.’ Liam shook his head sternly. ‘I wouldn’t want to be him when we get the fool home.’
The woman nodded absently. She picked out a reference number and began entering it on to a computer. ‘Going to need you to sign a release form. Are either of you members of his immediate fam—’ She stopped dead, her mouth slung open, her eyes on the screen. ‘It says the FBI came for him this morning.’ The policewoman looked up at them. ‘You just missed him. We transferred jurisdiction to them — about ten minutes ago.’
Maddy swallowed nervously. That doesn’t sound good.
She stared uncertainly up at Maddy and Liam, a look of growing suspicion in her eyes. ‘I … uh … you say you know this Abraham Lincoln? You’re associates of his?’
Associates? That made them sound like … criminals.
‘We’re, like, family … sort of,’ she said with a faltering smile. ‘Uh, is there a problem?’
The policewoman ignored her question. ‘Just one moment.’ She turned away from them, hurried across the front office to where the others were gathered, still staring at the small TV set.
‘Liam … something’s really wrong,’ hissed Maddy.
The woman was saying something to the others, then suddenly all five heads turned from the TV to look their way.
Oh crud.
‘I think we should leave,’ said Maddy.
‘I think you’re right.’
Liam waved his hand and called out to them. ‘Hey, you know what, fellas, we’ll come back another time! I can … uhh … see you’re all rather busy!’ He backed up a few steps from the counter and the plexiglas shield.
‘Stay right where you are!’ called out one of the plainclothes officers, his hand absently reaching under his jacket.
‘Oh crud!’ hissed Maddy.
Sal stood between both support units outside on the pavement, feeling strangely conspicuous. She noticed the same eerie stillness here as she’d seen on countless occasions in Times Square: people standing motionless, gazing up at the sky, most of them with a mobile phone to one ear, sharing these moments of horror with a loved one somewhere else in the city. Even some cars were still, stopped at intersections though they had a green light, their driver-side doors open or window wound down to see better the thick pall of smoke filling the sky.
With all eyes tilted upwards, it was only Sal — seen the 9/11 sky far too many times already — who noticed the black van smoothly rolling out of the precinct’s forecourt. As it turned left on to the intersection and rolled past them, she thought she spotted the ghost of a familiar bearded face through the grilled window in the back of the van.
‘Uh? Was that …?’
Becks looked back down. ‘What is it, Sal?’
‘That van …’ She pointed.
Becks followed her finger. ‘The black van? Registration Washington BLL 443.’
‘Yeah, I thought I just saw …’ Her uncertain voice faded to nothing as the van calmly weaved its way around the stopped traffic, took a right and disappeared from view.
Liam grabbed hold of Maddy’s hand, turned and ran out through the swing doors.
Outside, down three wide steps on the pavement, Sal and the other two looked up.
‘Maddy!’ called out Sal. ‘I think … we think we just saw Abraham being driven away in a —’ She stopped. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
Maddy grasped her shoulder, struggling to fill her wheezing lungs with air.
‘Maddy? You all right?’
‘We —’ wheeze — ‘we … got a new plan!’
‘What is it?’
At that moment the double glass doors of the precinct swung open and several uniformed police emerged, hands resting on their gun holsters, looking around at the passing foot traffic on the pavement.
‘Run!’
CHAPTER 21. 2001, en route to Quantico, Virginia
Lincoln glowered at his three captors in silence for the best part of an hour. The horseless vehicle they were travelling in was uncomfortable and bare. There were no windows that he could see out of clearly and the occasional lurching motion was beginning to make him feel sick. He had no idea how long they had sat like this, a man either side of him and one sitting opposite, returning his glare through round wire-framed glasses with cool professional contempt.
To his left a hatch suddenly snapped open revealing wire mesh and two more men in a cabin in front. Lincoln had the distinct impression that he was seeing the drivers, the operators, of this curious vehicle.
‘Agent Mead, sir!’
The man who had been silently staring at him turned and shuffled up the bench opposite. ‘What is it?’
‘Message from the New York field office, sir …’ The man’s voice was hesitant.
‘Well? What is it?’
What was muttered, Lincoln couldn’t make out. But for the first time he thought he saw a flicker of emotion on the bespectacled man’s face. The conversation was quick and the trapdoor snapped shut again. The man shuffled back down the bench to look at Lincoln once more. His jaw was grinding away, his lips pressed tightly, the knuckles bulging on his fists as he silently clenched and flexed them. Finally, in a voice clogged with emotion, he spoke.
‘Jesus.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows how many innocent civilians just died. One thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand? We may never know.’
‘What’s happened, sir?’ asked the agent to the left.
‘They came down.’
Both agents cursed.
‘North and south, both of them, the whole damned thing … gone!’
Lincoln frowned for a moment, and then realized the man was talking about those two magnificently tall buildings he’d seen exploding back in that brick archway. ‘The two straight towers are completely destroyed now?’
Lincoln could see the man with the spectacles wanted so much to throw a punch at him, but was doing his best to contain that urge. Nonetheless, he decided it was worth another go explaining his bizarre circumstances.
‘Now you must listen here, sir. I told those two rude gentlemen last night all about this! I was trying to explain to the foolish ignoramus that I have somehow managed to travel in time —’
‘I’d shut up if I were you.’
‘Good God, sir! This is a free country!’ Lincoln puffed his cheeks angrily. ‘I have a right to speak my mind, sir!’
‘Right now … no, you don’t.’
‘Do you know who I am, sir?’
‘Sure, I know who you are. You’re some scumbag, whack-job terrorist. Some messed-up-in-the-head fanatic who believes in killing innocent civilians to make some sort of screwed-up point!’
Lincoln leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. ‘Now you will hear me, sir. I shall be president of this country one day, and —’
The man wearing spectacles moved with a blur and Lincoln found himself doubled over, gasping for breath, winded by a blow to his solar plexus. He tried his best not to vomit on the metal floor between his feet.
‘Agent Belling, you saw what just happened, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. The vehicle lurched violently and the detainee fell on your fist, sir.’
‘Precisely.’
Lincoln looked up at them. ‘What? No! That man just punched me!’
‘Like I said, Abraham …’ said Agent Mead, ‘probably best if you shut up right now.’